Dewey, Cheatum, and Steele
by ComicalEpiphanies
Summary: Remington Steele didn't want the con, Daniel Chalmers needed the extra man, and Matt Murdock was just there because he could fight. Warning: courser language in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So this is my newest story. It is almost done, as in I just have to write the epilogue, and I'm dying to know how it is received. I probably won't be able to post the next chapter soon, but I will before the end of July. Enjoy. Oh, before I forget, for those of you who don't know either Daredevil's or Steele's stories, the first couple of chapters should clear up any major questions. Those of you who already know them, you'll just have to go with the flow. The action will pick up, I assure you. **

Chapter One:

"I'm looking for Remington Steele Investigations?"

Mildred Krebs, investigator-in-training and full-time secretary jumped. She'd been so absorbed in the agency's tax returns, she hadn't even heard the door open. She knew she really had to remind Ms. Holt to get a bell for that door.

"You found it," she greeted in her usually morning tone.

The man in the doorway smiled and stepped into the office. He was a tall man, Mildred noted, and clearly blind. Her developing PI skills weren't needed to tell that. The cane and glasses gave it away. His hair was a pleasant dark red, not unlike her husband's had been before he went bald, and he walked with the same kind of grace that Mildred associated with her boss. And she'd thought only Mr. Steele walked that way.

"May I please speak with Mr. Steele?" the man asked.

Mildred snapped out of her pre-introduction summations and blinked. "Mr. Steele is-"

"—Not late!" Remington Steele (AKA "Boss", AKA any name used by a famous actor in a famous movie, AKA… well, the list goes on) said, walking through the door. "Morning, Mildred. Mrs. Holt in yet?" he greeted, not even noticing the client waiting patiently by the desk.

"In her office, Boss, but there's someone here to see you." Mildred gestured to the man who was now grinning slightly at her boss.

For the first time that morning, Steele noticed him. He put down his paper and slipped into the persona Laura Holt created for him four years ago. "Remington Steele, how can we be of service?"

"Matthew Murdock, Matt," Matt put out his hand and Steele shook it. "May we go into your office?"

"Yes of course. Right this way. Um," Steele hesitated. He wasn't sure of how he was supposed to bring him into his office. Was he supposed to take his elbow or something? Luckily Matt seemed to understand because he smiled again and gestured for Steele to go ahead. Steele shrugged mentally and turned back to his office. "Please tell Ms. Holt to join us when she's ready, Mildred."

"Will do, Boss," Mildred replied, already returning to the very interesting tax receipts.

Steele shut his door and turned to Matt. "Well now, what seems to be the issue?"

Matt sat down in the seat he'd located in front of the desk and collapsed his cane as he spoke. "Well, Mr. Steele, I'm an attorney from New York here about a man who might have some very valuable information about a certain man back home."

"Oh?" Steele inquired just as the door opened and Laura Holt entered. Almost at once, Matt stood up and faced her. His manners made the tips of Laura's mouth twitch and a sharp sting of possessiveness struck Steele and he had to spend a millisecond snuffing it out. He was usually the first to stand when a woman walked into a room. "Mr. Murdock, this is my associate, Laura Holt. Ms. Holt, this is Matthew Murdock."

"Good morning, Mr. Murdock. What can we do for you?" Laura asked, circling behind the desk to stand next to Steele's chair.

"Matt, please." Matt sat back down. "As I was telling your associate, Ms. Holt, I'm here looking for a man. He went by the name Patrick Murray back east, but I think you might recognize him by another name: Daniel Chalmers."

Steele choked on the coffee Mildred had just brought in and Matt heard a subtle gasp from Laura. "What has he done?" Laura asked before Steele could get his breath back.

Matt shook his head quickly. "Nothing. You see, he was _involved_," he said the word in the tone that Laura recognized as meaning more than a passing acquaintance with, "with the man I've been trying to, well, bring justice to, for a long time. I think he might be the key to sending this man away for a very long time."

"But you lost him?" Steele cut in, his face no longer bright red from lack of airways.

Again, Matt smiled guiltily. "I am afraid so. Your Chalmers is a very slippery man, Mr. Steele."

"'Your'? Mr. Murdock, are you implying—"

"I'm sorry, Ms. Holt," Matt interrupted. "I thought it was obvious. I know you've had dealings with Daniel Chalmers before, Mr. Steele more than yourself. I was merely referring to that."

Once more, Steele found himself spitting up his coffee. Really, this was getting ridiculous. "How do you know that?" he sputtered. He hadn't been so shaken up in a very long time, almost as long as he'd been Remington Steele, and he'd forgotten how much he didn't like the feeling.

"Let's just say a friend of mine owes a friend a couple of favors," Matt answered cryptically. In actuality, that wasn't far from the truth. Daredevil had had to agree to being "caught" on film a couple of times in exchange for some information regarding the mysterious "Patrick Murray". Ben Urich at the _Bugle_ was a wizard when it came to research and digging. After all, he was the only civilian who found out Matt's secret on his own.

"And so you found us," Laura confirmed.

Matt's lips twitched. "Well that and I heard you are the best investigators in L.A. So, will you help me?" Matt tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, but he was hard pressed. He was running out of alternatives. He'd chased Chalmers around the US for going on two weeks, running into more dead ends than a mouse in a maze. He was nearing the point where even the thought of putting the Kingpin behind bars didn't mean much when compared with a soft bed and the comforts of his Hell's Kitchen brownstone.

There was a long silence that was filled with a silent debate on the PIs' part. Steele was adamant that they refuse Matt's request while Laura was just as steadfast for accepting. As usual, the female of the investigating duo won.

"Yes, Mr. Murdock, we will."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Wow. It's hard to believe I haven't touched this story in more than six months. In fact, I'd almost forgotten about it until it got it's first review just a few hours ago. So for those of you lurking in the shadows (and you must be, because this story has gotten a few alerts and more than some hits), now you know why I haven't posted. But, don't worry, this story is done. Actually, it's been done since a few weeks after I posted the first chapter. But, enough. For my tardiness, and it has been tardiness, (and because the first few are shorter than I remembered) I will be posting more than one chapter for the first time_ ever_. **

**Thank you, JJ Rust, for getting my butt moving. **

Chapter Two:

Laura sat down on the edge of Steele's desk in a manner that stopped any interruptions from Steele. "Why don't you start from the beginning?"

Matt laughed humorlessly. "That's a very long story." He rubbed his forehead, he hated leaving the predictable noise of New York City and he'd been away far too long for his liking. "Let's see. Well, I suppose I should start with the man Murray—sorry, Chalmers—um, had dealings with." He paused, waiting for agreement.

Laura nodded encouragingly before remembering their new client was blind. She coughed and answered verbally.

Matt continued. "I first became aware of Wilson Fisk two years ago." He trailed off and fiddled with the cane in his lap before saying, "I could tell you everything I know about him, but the long and short of it is, he's a crime boss. The biggest one in the Kitchen."

"Kitchen?" Steele asked.

Matt nodded. "Hell's Kitchen. The section of New York City I grew up in. Anyway, Mr. Chalmers appeared on my radar around six months ago. I met him at a fundraiser for the mayor. I thought nothing of it at the time, but then he started showing up around the mayor more and more."

"I'm not sure we see the connection, Mr. Murdock."

"Oh, of course. I'm sorry, Mr. Steele. I keep forgetting the rumors aren't that big around here." He laughed dryly again. "There is strong evidence to suggest our mayor is under the Kingpin's thumb."

Laura's eyebrows came together and Steele knew she was about to interrupt again. He was right. "Evidence, but not proof?"

Matt shook his head. "That's the reason I'm here. You see, if I can prove Mayor Halls is dirty, I'll have a good shot at taking down Fisk. I'm hoping that with Chalmer's testimony, I can convince a jury."

"You're pinning a lot on Daniel. Are you sure he can deliver?"

Matt rubbed his forehead before answering. "If it means there's a chance of cleaning up my home, I'm gonna take it."

The office was silent following his words. Laura broke it first. "So what do you need us for?"

"What my associate means is, you seem to be doing fine by yourself. Why do you need private investigators?" Steele cut in. Laura shot him an I-was-getting-to-that look, but he pretended not to notice.

Matt's thin smile reappeared. "I've been chasing Chalmers for two weeks and to tell you the truth, the only thing I know for sure is that I don't have a clue how to catch him long enough to ask him to testify. I just told you everything I found out about him over the past weeks."

"Of course. Well," Steele stood up and clapped his hands together loudly. Matt flinched slightly at the sharp noise, but only Laura saw. "I think Remington Steele Investigations might be able to do something. But," he added in a softer tone, "I'm not promising that Daniel will agree to anything you ask of him. He's not the kind of man to talk to a jury."

Matt stood up as well and shook Steele's hand. "I understand. It's worth a shot, though, right?"

"Of course, Mr. Murdock," Laura answered, also shaking their new client's hand. "There's always a chance." She followed the two men out of Steele's office.

"So where do we start?" Matt asked.

Laura and Steele exchanged looks. "Well," Laura began slowly, "I think Mr. Steele and I should visit a few of Mr. Chalmer's contacts here in LA."

"It shouldn't take long," Steele added. They both looked guilty at Matt. It wasn't unusual for their clients to tag along in the investigation, at least at first, but they weren't all that sure about taking a _blind _man to some of the places they were planning to visit. How do you tell a man he can't come without bringing up a potentially sore topic?

"Excellent. I'll stay here, then?" Matt took the problem out of their hands and the private investigators shared a brief moment of relief. One possible awkward position avoided.

"If you don't have somewhere else to be, I'm sure Mildred will be grateful for the company," Laura responded graciously.

Mildred, who'd been in Ms. Holt's office looking for some files, reappeared and interrupted before Matt could respond. "It's always nice to have someone to talk to while the Boss and Ms. Holt do all the legwork."

Matt laughed heartily for the first time since leaving his law partner and best friend in New York two weeks ago. "Very well, I guess I'm staying here. Is there anything you need me to do in the meantime?"

Once again, Steele and Laura exchanged looks. It seemed the awkward conversation was still abound. Steele decided it was his turn to speak. "I'm sure Mildred will find something for you to do, Mr. Murdock. Mildred, may I see you in my office for a moment?"

"Ah, sure Boss." Mildred looked for a place to put the stack of folders she'd collected from Laura's office before following Steele. "Something you need, Chief?"

Steele hesitated behind the closed door of his office before turning to Mildred. "Yes. I want you to find everything you can about our Mr. Murdock."

"But, Boss, isn't he our client?"

Steele looked back at the door as if he could see Matt through the wood. "He knows a lot about Daniel and me."

"Oh, and you're suspicious?"

"Quite right, Mildred. So anything you can find to explain a few things would be greatly appreciated."

Mildred raised one of her eyebrows and gave Steele a look. "I'll try."

"Thank you, Mildred," Steele pecked her on the cheek before going out to meet Laura.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three:

"Shall we make a deal?" Matt began as soon as he heard the elevator doors close behind the detectives.

Mildred avoided looking at him. She was fine with doing some background research—that was her job, after all—but she couldn't help feeling just a bit guilty doing it with the subject of said research looking over her shoulder, whether or not he could see it. She went back into Laura's office for the other pile of files she needed.

"What kind of deal, Mr. Murdock?" She turned around and promptly smacked directly into Matt, and the files went flying.

"Whoa." Matt bent down to help her pick everything up. "Sorry 'bout that."

"Not to worry. What were you saying?" Mildred took the folders Matt had collected and started sorting them again.

"That all of them? I was going to say that I heard what Mr. Steele asked you to do," he grinned lopsidedly and explained before Mildred could open her mouth to interrupt. "I've got pretty good hearing." That was the understatement of the year, but she didn't know that. "And as I am as curious about you as much as you are of me, I propose that I'll answer any and all questions truthfully if you do the same for me. Deal? Here, let me take those, they sound heavy." He gathered the three stacks into his arms before she could protest.

Mildred shrugged. "Thank you. Just set them on my desk, please." She watched as Matt balanced the eleven _heavy _files on one arm and made his way toward the desk. He did it without hesitation. Even the boss grunted when he carried that many, but Matt didn't make a sound.

"You can go first, if you like," Matt added, turning back to her.

Mildred thought about it. She had to admit it felt like a good deal. She could learn everything without feeling slimy, but at the same time, she had to think about what the boss would say about her sharing his past. But according to the boss himself, their client already seemed to know that he hadn't always been Remington Steele. And, she looked at Matt again, he really did remind her of her secretive employer and she had trusted him with her life more times than either of them cared to remember.

"How much do you know?" she started bluntly.

Matt snorted quietly. "I had a feeling that would be your first question." He sat down on the sofa next to Mildred's desk. "Let's see, I know that prior to three and a half years ago, Remington Steele didn't exist beyond the name on the door. I know that before that, five passports, each from a different country, shared the same picture as a certain private eye's certification. I know that that same face ran with Daniel Chalmers for almost eight years on and off."

"How did you get all this information?" Mildred didn't know whether to be scared or impressed that someone knew so much about her boss' past. She also couldn't help but be a little jealous. When she'd first met Mr. Steele when she was still with the IRS, she'd done some research, but even she hadn't found so much.

"Ah, wait, it's my turn." Matt grinned. "You're not going to tell me anything until I convince you I'm not going to turn Mr. Steele in, are you?"

Mildred blinked. Of all the things she'd been expecting, that was not one of them. And she'd thought she was getting better at hiding the watchdog tendencies. Guess not. "No, I mean, no, I'm not."

"Fair enough. Your last question, then. I found all this out via a friend at the main newspaper in New York. Don't worry, I trust him my life. He won't tell a soul what he found without my approval. As for the information about Mr. Steele's connection with Mr. Chalmers, well, Ms…?"

"Krebs."

"Ms. Krebs, I've been tracking Chalmers for a long time. I have connections, you know," he added. Mildred had a feeling she shouldn't ask him to explain further, no matter how much she wanted to. "Next?"

Mildred thought for a moment. "Who are you?"

Matt looked startled. "I am so sorry, I completely forgot. How rude of me." He leaned forward and held his hand out toward her. "Matthew Murdock, attorney at law."

"Yes, but _who _are you?" she clarified when they'd both sat back down.

"You mean the details? Okay, I'm a blind lawyer who grew up in Hell's Kitchen, New York City. I am a Columbia alumnus with a degree in criminal law from NYU. I work with my partner, Franklin Nelson, in a storefront office in the Kitchen. I understand the need for secrecy and discretion in almost everything. Good enough?"

"For now," Mildred replied cautiously. "What's your next question?"

"Hmm. How long have you been working here?"

"A little more than two years. I was hired after the Boss and Ms. Holt kidnapped me."

"Excuse me, kidnapped?"

Mildred laughed at the memory. "Yeah. I was an agent for the IRS at the time. I was sent to investigate Mr. Steele's lack of taxes. We were in the middle of an audit when Mr. Steele took a plane to Mexico. I thought he was running, so I followed. I spent a day tied with blankets onto a hotel bed until they turned out to need me. Three days later, I turned in my badge."

"Ok-ay," Matt said slowly. "That's the most interesting job interview I've ever heard."

"You're telling me! My turn. Why are you here?"

"As I told your employers, I am here to track down Mr. Chalmers so that I can ask him to testify against the mayor of my city and help me put a crime boss behind bars for good. How long have Mr. Steele and Ms. Holt been together? I felt some weird tension in there," he elaborated, gesturing in the general direction of Steele's office.

"Oh," Mildred laughed again. She was starting to like this lawyer from New York. "You're observant, Mr. Murdock."

"Matt. I try," Matt broke in.

"Then it's Mildred. The Boss and Ms. Holt have been wanting a relationship for as long as I've known them, but I don't think they've ever made it official, if you know what I mean. Not by lack of effort on my end, mind."

Mildred thought about a good question, but nothing really seemed appropriate. She hadn't known Murdock very long, but her instincts were rarely wrong nowadays and the curiosity was driving her mad. Finally she couldn't stand it any longer. "How long have you been," she smiled as she tried to think of the best way to put it, "um…"

"A lawyer or blind as a bat?" Matt helped. Mildred laughed awkwardly, but Matt didn't seem to notice. "A lawyer for going on five years, blind about fourteen."

"Oh," Mildred didn't know what to say. She'd always felt silly saying sorry for things she hadn't done, especially in situations like this.

Matt shook his head. "It was my own fault. I didn't have to run into the street." He laughed but it wasn't really in amusement. "You should have seen the truck!"

"Why?" Mildred couldn't help but ask. Her mother used to say thank goodness curiosity killed the cat because if it hadn't, it would probably have killed her.

"It was little more than a shell after the waste exploded and they put the fire out. An army truck, you know, caring hazardous bi-products from a research facility or something. The driver had a heart attack and drove into a lamppost. I see a canister roll towards me one second, the next, I'm wakin' up a week later in a hospital room."

Matt let the melancholy settle for a moment before clapping his hands together. "My turn, right? Let's seeee, how did a world-class thief like Steele become a famous LA detective?"

Mildred grasped Matt's ladder out of the hole like a drowned man. "You'll have to ask him that as it was before my time. I only found out the name Steele existed before the man this past year. The only thing I know for sure is that they met while he was trying to steal the jewels she was hired to protect."

"Ha! I bet that's a very good story! I think it might just rival yours."

"Yeah, I think it might. We'll have to ask them to tell us sometime." Mildred smiled. "Want some coffee?"

Matt thought about it for a second while his laughter trailed off. "No thanks, but if you have some tea, I'd love a cup."

Mildred stood up. "The boss is European, of course we have tea." She paused on her way to the kitchenette. "Actually, he doesn't drink that much tea."

Matt smiled. "Yeah, I meant to ask you about that," he called. "His accent, what is that?"

Mildred returned with a plate of not-so-completely-stale cookies and set them down on the table in front of Matt. "I think I've decided it's a hybrid of British and Irish. Ms. Holt once told me he'd let slip that he was born in Ireland, but that's all we've ever gotten out of him. You don't have to eat them, if you don't like them," she added with humor.

"Thank you!" Matt laughed, putting the half-eaten cookie down. It was much staler than Mildred had thought.

"How do you like your tea?" Mildred asked, bringing in the tray.

"I'll take some honey if you have it, but otherwise, plain's fine."

"I'm afraid it'll have to be plain." Mildred put the tray down and made to pour, but Matt stopped her.

"No, you've done everything. Sit down, take a load off." He smiled lopsidedly in the same way Steele did when he was being politely steadfast. Mildred shrugged a little and backed down. She settled herself into the much more comfortable chair adjacent to Matt's couch. "Milk or Sugar?"

"A bit of cream." Mildred was quite impressed as she watched Matt pour just the right amount of cream for a full cup of Earl Grey. "Thank you."

"'Course." Matt leaned back into his chair with his cup and took a sip. "I believe it's your turn."

A mischievous formed on Mildred's face. "How much do you bench press?"

**A/N: I am sorry for those of you who knew one or both of the back-stories, but the information needed to be given. For those of you from the _Remington Steele _side, as I was not a huge fan of the last episode of the fourth season or the entire fifth season, I am setting this in the middle of season three, hence no real/formal relationship between the two of them. As for where this falls in the DD universe, I've put it in the middle of Frank Miller's _Visionaries_ series, circa volume two. **

**Assuming I see another positive response (or not, but I'd really like to get a little support), I'll have chapter four, and maybe five, out by, let's say, Sunday of next week. Until then!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Okay, so I have a good excuse. I am a busy high schooler with a career and no weekends. I meant to post this Sunday, but I had two interviews, then I fell asleep right after school Monday, spent Tuesday doing the homework I should have done Monday, and yesterday I had to get out a scholarship application. Like I said, I am busy. But because I'm nearly a week late, I'm posting two chapters, even though I planned to only post this. I will TRY to post chapter six by next Sunday. **

**Oh, and I want to thank the two reviewers from last chapter, moms5thchild and an anonymous person. Even if you two are the only readers, it's nice to know you're there. **

Chapter Four:

The self-named Remington Steele leaned against the backside of the elevator on his way to his apartment. It had been a long day what with talking to his old acquaintances (none of whom knew if Daniel was in town) and deflecting Laura's curiosity about his past.

Besides that, he couldn't help but worry about the man he regarded as the only father he'd ever had. What had he done that was so big a lawyer had had to track him across the country? If he every got a hold of that man, he'd—

There was someone in his apartment.

Steele could hear the person rattling around, probably in the china cabinet. He opened the door very slowly so as not to creak and closed it as quietly as he could. He tiptoed into the apartment, grabbing a decorative candlestick he'd received from some grateful client last Christmas, and, using all the talents born of years of thievery, crept into his dinning area. It was empty, but the rattling continued.

Steele raised the candlestick high, trying not to think of the films that contained this very scene, and charged into the kitchen with a loud, "AHHH!"

The trespasser spun around. "Really Harry, that's not a polite way to say hello."

"Daniel!" Steele dropped the candlestick and it clanged loudly against the cold linoleum. "I've spent the whole day checking all our LA contacts and you decide to show up here?"

Daniel pretended to look affronted. "Well, if you're going to be like that, I suppose I could just go." He made to untie the apron from around his neck.

"Oh no you don't!" Steele stopped him. "What are you doing?"

"Why, Harry, I do believe you are slipping. Can you not see I'm cooking supper?" Daniel stirred one of the mysterious concoctions and tasted the sauce. "Perfect. The most gorgeous woman made it for me last spring in a villa in the south of France."

Steele went closer to see. "What is it?"

Daniel dropped the top back on the pot. "She never said, but it's almost ready. Cheese?" He held out a plate of one of Steele's more expensive cheeses left over from the last romantic dinner he'd had with Laura.

"Is that the last of the prima donna I had in the fridge?" Steele answered.

"Yes. Try it with a slice of apple." Daniel kissed the tips of his fingers. "Take it to the couch, will you?"

Steele snorted and shook his head incredulously before taking the plate. He'd never admit it to anyone, but he really did love Daniel.

OOOOOO

An hour later, their plates were clean and Steele was making a pot of after-supper coffee. "Why are you here, Daniel?"

Daniel took the coffee and took a sip before answering. "Finishing a job I had to put on hold for a while. And eating your cheese and drinking your wine," he added, lifting his mug in silent acknowledgment.

"Did you know you were being trailed by a lawyer?"

Daniel tapped his hand against the table lightly. "Darn. I thought I lost him in Chicago. He's good."

Steele twitched his head in a so-so motion and drained the last of his coffee. "He's also our newest client."

"That so? Interesting, but not new. I seem to recall the same coincidence a few years back."

"Why is he so sure you can help him?" Steele asked, refilling their cups, having decided not to mention the fact that the last "coincidence" hadn't been so much a coincidence as Daniel setting them up.

"I have no idea."

"What were you doing in New York? I thought too many people knew you there."

"Too true, my boy, but a friend called in favor."

Steele peered over the rim of his mug at his mentor. "What kind of debt puts you in the sights of a kingpin and a city manager?"

Daniel looked impressed. "You know about that, do you?" He shrugged. "The kind you can't say no to."

"What exactly did you have to do?" The problem with life-debts was that even if the payment was suicide, you had to do it. It was the code of the "union".

"Be Patrick Murray, communications director of Gregory Halls' administration."

"So you were the middle-man, then? I thought a smart man is never a middle man."

"Quite right." Daniel raised his wine glass in salute and nodded sagely in a way that clearly said that he didn't want to elaborate and Steele didn't push him.

Steele moved to the couch and Daniel followed. They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, not really looking at anything. After a while, Steel broke the spell. "You mentioned a job…?" He tried to sound nonchalant, but didn't pass it off as well as he'd hoped.

"Ah, yes," Chalmers said, his eyes glinting in the manner Steele knew meant trouble, for him or them. "Remember Hungary?"

Steele thought about it for a second before the memory clicked. "Duke Plankinton?"

"That's the one." Daniel helped himself to a glass of the wine left over from dinner. "Well, there's this—"

"You're not! Daniel, it barely worked then!" Steele interrupted, the conclusion of the con suddenly hitting him.

Daniel shrugged and sipped his wine. "Yes, well, now we know better, don't we? I've already laid the foundations, so it's too late to go soft now."

Steele did a small double take. "Foundations? Too late? You're not operating under the assumption that I'm going to help you. I am reformed. I'm Remington Steele, respected private investigator now!"

"But not while you pull the job. You're," Daniel reached into his jacket pocket and handed Steele a few sheets of paper, "Albert Mercer."

Steele glanced at the sheets. "Albert Mercer? Al Mercer?" He snapped his fingers. "_Five Against the House_; Guy Madison, Kim Nova; 1955. Five college students rob a casino after hearing it's impossible," he recited in rapid fire. "Fitting." He passed the papers back. "But I'm still retired."

"Nonsense, Harry. You're half my age." Daniel put the wine glass down. "Even so, I've already started and you know I can't do it alone."

Steele avoided looking into his mentor's eyes. "I'm sorry, Daniel, but I've changed. I promised Laura I would never put the agency at risk again."

Daniel sighed but nodded. "I understand." He stood up and headed to the door with Steele following slowly. He pulled on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck before stopping. "You really love her, don't you?"

Steele smiled thinly. "I'm afraid so."

Daniel nodded again. "So this is goodbye, then?"

Steele held out his hand. "I suppose it is."

The older man looked at the extended hand and shook his head. Taking it, he pulled his former-pupil into a hug. Slapping him on the back, he said, "Until we meet again, my boy." He smiled and then he was gone.

Steele sighed and rubbed his suit. Suddenly, his expression changed. He reached into his pants' pocket and pulled out…a note.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five:

_The Grand. Six sixty-six_. Steele read the note for the hundredth time, and for the ninety-ninth, crumpled it in his fist before smoothing it out again.

He huffed and poured himself another shot of brandy. He kneaded his forehead. He hated the schizophrenic reaction being a former-thief caused.

Then he stood up and left the apartment, the note balled in his fist once more.

OOOOOOO

Steele hammered on the door of room six sixty-six.

Almost at once, it swung open. "Ah, Harry, you're right on time." Daniel moved aside to let his protégé in.

Steele didn't bother commenting. "We need to set some ground rules before we start. First, Laura will _not _know what we're doing." He waited until Daniel agreed. "Second, this is it for me. No more pulling me into your schemes. Last, if the agency is at all discredited, I reserve the right to kill you, bring you back, and beat you dead again. Deal?"

"Why, Harry, I do believe you are completely domesticated. But," he added quickly, ducking his head in admission, "I understand and agree to your terms."

"Thank you." Steele looked around the modest suite before sitting down on the couch. "So now that's established, how far in are we?"

Daniel grinned widely and turned off the classical music he'd been listening to before Steele arrived. "Duke Plankinton met with the boss this morning."

"So where does Mercer come in?"

"He's the Duke's financial advisor. He'll be there to oversee the deal."

Steele nodded slowly as he processed the information. "You haven't told me who the target is…"

OOOOOO

Matt flipped onto his back. Again.

He sighed and rubbed his dry eyes. He really hated hotels. It was just his luck there would also be a marketing convention during his stay as well, so not only were _all _the corner rooms taken, but also most of the businessmen seemed to be taking advantage of being away from their wives…

If it hadn't been for the Mozart someone in the room on the floor above was playing, he would have been forced to suffocate himself. So much for thick, soundproofing walls.

And then the music stopped.

"Great," he mumbled into his pillow. Without something to concentrate on, he could hear the salesman in the room next to him with his partner with disturbing clarity. In desperation, he turned his hearing back into the room that had a second before been playing Mozart.

It only took him a moment to recognize the voice. That British/Irish hybrid was too unusual to mistake. For a split-second, he considered respecting his private investigator's privacy, but as the alternative was worse, he focused on the conversation with, presumably, Daniel Chalmers.

He was just getting to the point when the heavy, rumbling _thunk _of the elevator stopping on the floor above made Matt jump. Matt couldn't help but hear the whispered conversation between the new arrivals.

"_What were the orders again?"_

"_I've told you three times! __Shake 'um and get the painting."_

Matt's ears perked up. In his experience, those words never led to a picnic. He tensed as he heard the voices near the room where he knew his PI and the whole reason he'd left his home remained unaware.

The voices' owners pushed open the door and Matt sprang into action. Without conscious thought, he grabbed the collapsible cane he kept under his pillow for emergencies and darted out of his hotel room.

"_I'm sure we can come to an agreement,"_ Chalmers was saying as Matt flew up the stairs two steps at a time.

Right in front of the door, Matt hesitated. He really hadn't planned this through, but here he was, standing in his boxers and ragged t-shirt. It was too late to turn back now, however, and even if it weren't, Matt had a bad feeling and he'd long ago learned to trust his gut. So he knocked politely.

It took a moment for the lock to unclick and the door to swing open. "What?" a voice Matt recognized from downstairs asked harshly.

"Hi. I'm here to talk to," he ransacked his memory to recall the name he'd heard Chalmers say he was using, "the Duke," he compromised.

"He's not here," the gruff voice replied.

Matt sized the man up. His voice was deep, meaning he was taller and probably larger than he'd originally assumed; a conclusion supported by his other senses. His heart was strong and steady. Good, he wasn't expecting much. "Are you sure? I thought I heard him."

"Positive." The big guy tried to shut the door, but Matt stuck his foot in the way. "Get off, man!"

Matt responded by swinging the door to hit the man in the face and pushing himself into the suite. His radar registered the presence of Steele and Chalmers, both being guarded by the second man he'd heard.

The moment he spent orientating himself, however, gave the man time to regain his senses. He jumped Matt, or at least tried to.

Matt elbowed the oncoming man, accompanying it with a backhanded punch to first the already bloody nose, then the gonads. He went down like a sack of potatoes, whimpering while still managing to curse like a drunken sailor.

Meanwhile, his buddy was trying to help his partner by getting rid of the lawyer. He swung an impressive right hook, but Matt easily deflected it with his now-unfurled cane. He dodged another fist before taking the opportunity presented by the man's sloppy footwork to swipe his opponent's feet out from under him.

As the man landed on the floor, Matt threw his cane at the first one, who'd been trying to escape, hitting him across the head and knocking him out before he'd gotten two feet.

The second man was up again, but Matt had had enough. He was tired and not in the mood. He lashed out, pressing a certain nerve, sending his foe to La-La Land instantly.

He crumpled, hitting himself on the coffee table on the way down.

Matt bent over to retrieve his cane, reveling in the adrenaline.

"What was that?" Steele had finally found his voice.

Matt sighed and addressed the two con men for the first time that night. "Surprise." He polished the tip of his cane and closed the door behind him while Steele and his mentor were still processing his reply.

OOOOOOO

Matt returned to his room only to pick up a change of clothes and, he realized as he felt around for his pesky watch, his sunglasses. In his hurry, he'd completely forgotten them, but in hindsight, that was probably a good thing. He contemplated just falling into bed, but he could already hear Steele calling the front desk to ask which room was his.

He sighed. He should have realized an explanation would have to follow such a performance, but he wasn't ready to explain everything. It was almost one o'clock and now that his parasympathetic system had kicked in, Matt felt every minute passed ten.

So he pulled on a pair of pants, slipped on his glasses, and pressed the button for the elevator.

**A/N: You know I love reviews. I hope this chapter and the last hold you over for a few days. Remember, check back on Sundays!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I've had an epiphany. I have been holding off for two reasons: one, I didn't like the ending, and two, I wanted reviews. As I've adjusted and re-written the ending and I've realized this story is yet another of mine that will never get as many reviews as I wish (though I am extremely uplifted every time I do see one), I will just give you all the remaining chapters in a mega-update. Any mistakes-which I hope are few, but I'm never as perfect a proofer as I'd like to be-I am sorry for, and if I can, I will fix them as soon as possible. **

Chapter Six:

"Mr. Murdock? Matt?"

Matt snapped up, grasping for his cane reflexively while lashing out with an undirected swat.

Mildred Krebs sprang back in surprise. "Wow! It takes a while to get you up, but not too much to set you off, huh?"

Matt smiled sheepishly, relaxing and swinging his legs off the couch he'd collapsed into as soon as he'd managed to get into the office. "Sorry. You startled me."

The receptionist smiled kindly. "I guess so." She put down her purse. "Not to be rude, but why are you here?"

Matt yawned and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. "There were a few disturbances at my hotel. It was too late to check in anywhere else."

Mildred looked at the door and then back at the agency's present client, her eyebrow raised. "How did you get in?"

"I supposed you'll find out soon enough. I snuck into the building and picked the lock," he said after a moment of silence during which he contemplated just telling Mildred everything now and letting her explain to her employer while he got some more sleep on the surprisingly comfortable couch.

Mildred wasn't sure how to reply to that. At least he had the decency to look ashamed, which was more than Mr. Steele could usually say. She was still debating the various responses when the phone rang.

"Remington Steele Investigations."

"Ah, Mildred, you're there already. Excellent," the boss's accent rang out of the earpiece. "Has Mr. Murdock called?"

"No," Mildred began truthfully.

"I need you to find out where he might be," Steele rushed on. "We lost him somewhere. We need to talk to him."

"Boss!" Steele stopped mid-rant. "He's here. He's been here all night," she glanced at Matt, who nodded resignedly.

"He has? Keep him there, Mildred. Whatever you do, don't let him get away!"

"But Boss, wha—" It was too late; he'd hung up. Mildred sighed and put the phone back on its cradle. "I think Mr. Steele's gone mad," she mumbled to herself.

Matt snorted. "No, I think he's just desperate for an explanation. Where do you keep the coffee filters?"

"What?" Mildred had just noticed Matt was no longer on the couch but in the kitchenette pouring water into the coffee machine. "Next to the machine on the right. An explanation for what?"

Matt found the filters and carefully counted eight spoonfuls of grounds into the brewer. "I assume for the events last night."

"What events?"

"Well—" The sudden appearance of said employer stopped Matt's next sentence.

"Mr. Murdock!" Steele cried as soon as his eyes landed on the blind lawyer.

"Let's go into your office, shall we?" Matt replied smoothly. "I assume Mr. Chalmers is coming as well?" He didn't wait for a reply, but rather led the way into the spacious office.

Steele followed, nodding a distracted hello to Mildred (who was looking more and more confused) and Chalmers quickly copied his actions, winking at Mildred as he passed.

The two thieves found Matt calmly sitting on the loveseat. He looked perfectly at home as he said, "I never got the point of the expression 'blind as a bat'. I mean, sure, bats can't see worth beans, but they're not by any means blind. You might as well come in," he added in the same tone.

Mildred blushed when Steele, who was looking at Matt like he was some weird creature from one of those old sci-fi films about aliens attacking Earth, opened the door. She tried to look like she'd just been bringing in coffee, but her guilty expression betrayed her. She sat down on the chair furthest from Matt.

Matt sent her a forgiving smile. "Where was I? Oh yes, so blind as a bat. Never got the expression."

"So you're _not _blind?" Steele interrupted, too anxious for games.

Matt leaned over to reach the coffee Mildred had placed in front of him on the table. "No. As blind as a bat."

Chalmers sat back against the cushions with an exasperated huff. "You're purposefully leading us in circles," Steele stated.

Matt sipped his coffee and grinned. "I assure you, I'm not trying to. I haven't had to explain in a very long time and never to so many people." He put down his mug. "But you're right. To the point.

"I'm sure Mildred has already told you about the accident, correct?" Mildred nodded along with Steele. Chalmers glanced at his former pupil but a quick mouthed 'later' stopped him from saying anything.

Matt went on. "Well, what she didn't tell you—because I didn't tell her—is that the accident made me much better suited to use the expression 'blind as a bat'.

"You see," he scooted back into the loveseat, "like a bat, I have a certain kind of sense I call radar. Combined with my extremely heightened remaining senses, it gives me a pretty good image." He drank some more coffee, his nerves, which he was having trouble keeping steady, calming as the warm, rich liquid slid down his throat.

"That doesn't explain what we saw last night," Steele prodded.

Mildred looked around. "What happened last night?"

Matt cleared his throat. "I was listening to the music in Mr. Chalmers' room last night—thank you for that, the neighbors weren't too courteous—" Chalmers was caught between amusement and outrage, but Matt either didn't notice or care. "When I heard the two men approach your room. Being the act-before-think kind of guy I am, I ran up to help."

"You haven't answered our question."

Matt addressed Chalmers. "Okay, okay. So you want to know how I did it?"

"You did take them out in less than two minutes," Steele cut in.

Matt shrugged. "I've always had a talent for martial arts, but after my accident, it all became much easier. I guess you could say it's a hobby." Once again, Matt was telling a half-truth. It was more of a second job to dress up in a devil suit almost every night to protect his city.

The office was silent again. Everyone was trying to comprehend the blind man's story.

"Mildred?" Everyone but Matt (who'd heard her in the elevator) jumped. "Mr. Steele?" Laura Holt knocked on her associate's door before gently pushing it open.

"Ms. Holt," Steele cried, jumping up to greet her, guilt written across his face in bold lettering.

Laura looked at her partner suspiciously and then around the room, her gaze stuttering for a moment on Chalmers. She turned back to Steele. "What's going on?"

"We were, um." For a former con man, Steele was a terrible liar, Matt thought. Luckily, Chalmers was faster with his tongue.

"Harry and this young man here were just explaining why they found the need to hunt me down."

Laura's eyes flickered back to the old thief. "And?"

Steele's stomach flopped uncomfortably when he saw the glint appear in his mentor's eye. "That depends on whether they are going to help me." Steele shook his desperately mouthing "no! no!" behind his associate's back, but stopped as soon as Laura glared at him.

"How?" Matt asked, sitting up straighter. He had a terrible suspicion that "helping me" had something to do with the Duke, but Matt had gone too far to just turn around and go home now. If there were a chance he could put the kingpin away, he'd do it.

"Simple." Chalmers' grin grew wide. If Matt had only seen that Cheshire cat smile, he might not have been so quick to agree…


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven:

"Why are you here?"

Why was he here? That was an excellent question that Matt had absolutely no answer to. When Chalmers had first told him his part, he'd thought it was ridiculous, but now that he was actually asking for a job with the man they were supposed to rob, he knew it was suicide. He was a lawyer, albeit one good at hand-to-hand combat, not a con man. But here he was, pretending to be Duncan "Shades" McLain and helping to pull off a heist.

Matt hid all his doubts behind a mask of indifference. "I heard you were short a couple of men. I'm here for the job."

Bernard Rickman, head of security and Chalmers' target's right-hand man, looked Matt up and down. Had Matt not been playing the rough, apathetic henchmen, he would have squirmed as he felt Rickman's gaze rake over his new appearance.

Chalmers had been adamant that he needed something to make the twenty-eight year old look older, so Matt had been coerced into trading his comfortable, everyday suit in for something Italian. A trip to Steele's tailor and he'd filled the clothes and age requirement. His dark red hair had been gelled and cropped against Matt's wishes, as everyone else had agreed that the ivy-league style was way too eastern lawyer.

To complete the image of a good boy gone rather off track, Steele had forced Matt to morph his Hell Kitchen slight Irish twang into the lilt of upper Manhattan. "A good accent makes all the difference," Steele had said, completely ignoring Laura's whispered comment that he was one to talk considering he couldn't hold anything besides Irish, British, and cockney. Matt had agreed if only to make up for the rude snort that had followed her statement.

Finally, they'd switched the blue sunglasses his secretary had given him for Christmas last year with a completely black pair to hide the spidery network of scars around his eyes more completely and add another layer of intimidation to the whole ensemble.

It had taken three days to create and establish Shades McLain, but it had been too long for Matt. In some ways it was almost a relief to be under Rickman's microscopic eyes.

"How much experience do you have?" Rickman was doing a perfect imitation of a forceful cop trying to get a confession out of a suspect.

"Two tours in 'Nam," Matt started, knowing full well how Rickman would react because Mildred had done her job. He wasn't disappointed.

He heard Rickman's heart speed up in anticipation, but he imagined that there was no outward sign. "What rank? Command?"

"Corporal. Hundred and one infantry," Matt recited. They'd debated whether Shades should be a lieutenant, but Chalmers had put his foot down.

Rickman stood in front of Matt and for a second, Matt was sure he was going to be caught, or at least suffocate under the man's day-old garlic breath. Matt forced himself to breath through his mouth and tried to remember everything the seasoned confidence-tricksters had told him.

Just when the tension was about the kill him, Rickman backed off and broke the silence. "Marine Corp."

Matt hid his relief behind the mask he'd created. "You guys saw some shit."

Rickman snorted and shook his head and Matt knew he had passed the first test.

"Yeah, a whole lotta shit." Rickman paused for a second, obviously lost in memories, before suddenly continuing. "After Nam?"

"Jobs off and on until I went to work for Fisk back in New York."

"Wilson Fisk?"

Matt nodded, bile rising up his throat at the thought of ever working for Fisk again, not that he'd told anyone at the agency that when they'd created Shades' background. He'd done it once, a long time ago to get evidence—never again.

"Why'd you leave?"

"Change of scenery." Matt shrugged and added, "And he was turning soft." That was true, mostly. When he'd left the kingpin's service, Fisk was still in love with his wife. All the miscreants in the Kitchen had thought the man was going nuts at the time. After all, no self-respecting crime boss falls in love and then grows morals.

"What did you do for him?"

Matt didn't hesitate; they'd gone over this question back at the agency. "Stuff. Some more legal than others." It had been decided that Shades should make it perfectly clear he didn't care about the law as soon as possible.

Rickman was silent for another second, and then he patted something. "How do you handle one of these?" It took Matt a precious second to focus his radar enough to identify the Colt resting in a holster under Rickman's left arm.

Matt smiled slyly. "Almost better than I do these little babies." He pulled out one of the knives Daniel had insisted he carry on the grounds that they held a greater awe factor. Well that and Matt wasn't too confident with guns.

In an ideal situation, Matt could hit the middle of a one square foot target from about seventy meters. _If _he focused. That, unfortunately, was with his cane. A gun was louder, thicker, and overall much different from the smooth sound and feel of the top part (and throwing half) of his stick. But in absence of his cane, knives were an accepted alternative.

Matt felt Rickman's surprise and allowed his smile to grow a bit.

"Show me." Rickman looked around. He opened the door and gestured for Matt to follow. He pointed to a potted plant down the hall. "Hit that."

Matt stretched his senses. The fern was about fifty feet from his position, clearly Rickman expected a lot from a fellow Vietnam vet. The path was un-obscured and the air was relatively still. All and all, an easy shot for a man of Matt's caliber.

Matt thought about it. The words Daniel had said when he'd given him the knives echoed through his head: _"It's all about the shock. Shock them and you're in."_

Matt turned to face Rickman. "Where?"

"In the middle." Rickman was practically smirking; Matt could hear it in his voice. Brother-in-arms he might be, but trusted he wasn't.

Matt centered the black-on-black image provided by his radar on the plant. In a single, fluid movement that would have made his sensei proud, Matt let the dagger fly, still facing Rickman.

The security head pushed passed Matt to gape at the shot. The knife had gone through the fern and embedded itself in the wall. He gripped the hilt and pulled hard, but the wall wouldn't relinquish the weapon. He looked back at Matt. "Let's go see the boss."

OOOOOO

Around the same time, the rest of Matt's—for lack of a better name—team, were at the agency.

"Don't you think it's a little fool hardy?" Laura Holt asked the brains of the operation, Daniel Chalmers.

Chalmers shrugged noncommittally. "That's why we have Mr. Murdock."

Laura looked to her partner for support. "Why does that make it less reckless?"

Steele coughed and avoided everyone's eyes. "Well, you see Laura, we," he coughed again, "did this once before in Hungary, and, let's just say, it went sour."

"See!" Laura flung her arms into the air.

"But that was because we only had the two of us," Steele added quickly, still avoiding Chalmers' eyes. "We were almost to the actual, well, heist, when we were caught."

"What Harry means is, we were caught unawares," Chalmers interrupted smoothly. "But now that we have someone in the inside, that won't happen again."

"Oh?" Laura crossed her arms and stared the old con man down. "How is that?"

Chalmers looked out of Steele's window nonchalantly. "Because as a guard, Mr. Murdock will have access to the areas we need and the information necessary to make sure things don't go the same way they did in Hungary."

Laura turned back to Steele, who returned with the expression 'you don't want to know, but if you do, I'll tell you later'. She pursed her lips but didn't comment. "So while he's gathering information, what will you two be doing?"

Chalmers smiled. "Why, selling art, of course!" He walked out before Laura could force him to elaborate, saying he heard Mildred calling his name.

Laura decided to let him go, instead turning on Steele. "What is he planning?"

Steele gulped.

OOOOO

Matt didn't know what he should be feeling at the moment. Elation or at least accomplishment at getting passed Rickman seemed appropriate, but all he could really think was: "Oh my God, oh my God. I'm going to be an accessory to a crime."

It took all of his considerable willpower to remember that one, he wasn't actually going to pull the heist, and two, in the end he'd have Wilson Fisk, kingpin of New York crime, behind bars.

But the upsides weren't too bright when confronted with Colin Epps, the undisputed shipping monarch of the western seaboard. Of all the people Chalmers was going to rob, he had to choose the one person in California who rivaled Fisk's monopoly.

When Matt had first heard about the shipping guru, he'd pictured a tall man, or at least someone wide. Instead, his senses painted a picture of the epitome of a nerd.

His ears picked up the nasally voice and thick breathing patterns first, while his nose detected the smell of expensive moisturizer and a certain lack of hair products, leading him to conclude that the man in front of him was short and stout with little hair, probably wearing a suit that cost more than his law office saved in a fiscal year. His radar, while more help than any of his others senses besides perhaps hearing, wasn't detailed enough to tell more than the basic outline of a person, but confirmed the shape and gave Matt the impression of thick glasses.

Matt had to wonder how such a tweedy little man could become so big in the business. That was, until Epps started talking.

In no way did the man have charisma, but his demeanor was not that of the nerd one would expect from his appearance. It was not the tone of the schoolyard victim (Matt would recognize that a mile away) but more of the bully. He had power in his voice and Matt instantly detested him.

Part of Matt wanted to agree with Chalmers when he'd said that Epps deserved to be robbed, but the other half was terrified of failing and ending up in the very position of most of his clients.

"I don't trust a man who hides his eyes."

Epps' statement interrupted the debate between Matt's inner lion and mouse. He said the first thing that came to mind. "Did you ever think that the man does it because he doesn't trust you?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Matt knew he'd done something stupid. Epps didn't say a word for a couple of pregnant seconds that nearly stopped Matt's heart.

"Why would I want a man who doesn't trust me?"

Matt steadied himself as best he could. His next sentence would either kill him or make him the luckiest—and stupidest—man alive. "A man who doesn't trust anyone but himself never makes mistakes."

Epps stared at the blind man for a long time without an expression. And then, out of nowhere it seemed, he laughed and Matt knew he was the luckiest idiot alive.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight:

"Mr. Epps, may I introduce my lawyer, Mr. Albert Mercer from Mason, Mason, and Mercer. Albert, this is Mr. Colin Epps, the man who is going to buy my painting," Daniel Chalmers (as Lord Elrod Plankinton) introduced regally.

Matt, who had been assigned as a general guard shortly after his interview, had to be impressed at Chalmers' complete transformation. While they'd been discussing the plans, Chalmers had been a smallish man with a boisterous current to his voice, and had given off a kind of favorite-uncle vibe. But here, in the foyer of the mansion in front of the shipping king himself, Chalmers was completely different.

For one, he now sported a pompous British accent. He was standing straight with impeccable posture that practically screamed nobility. His clothes were expensive but worn, supporting the story that his wealth was more an image than a reality.

Steele was also not the man who'd walked passed Matt that morning almost four weeks ago. His suit was straight off the rack and though his stood confidently, if with a noticeable slouch, he was twitchy and his clean Londoner was squeaky and very, very annoying, especially to Matt's sensitive ears. The semi-famous face of Remington Steele was expertly hidden behind thick, bug-like glasses that Matt didn't even need to focus on to "see".

In short, had Matt not known their true identities (or their heart rhythms), he would never have suspected. They were both their characters.

"Why don't we discuss this in my office?" the not-so-nerdy multimillionaire hinted after everyone important was introduced.

"Of course. Let us begin," "Plankinton" agreed, gesturing to "Mercer" to tell him to follow.

Matt and the other guard on boss-duty (as the other guards called it when their employers weren't around), Hank Fillar, stationed themselves outside the door as Epps ordered. It didn't bother Matt too much; he could hear everything just fine from outside.

Inside the office, things were remaining formal. There was an elephant in the room the shape of the mutual understanding that Epps had sent men to steal the painting.

The millionaire cleared his throat. "Let's skip the pleasantries and get straight to it, shall we? How much for the Ruben's?"

Mercer spoke first. "My client is willing to sell—"

"I can speak for myself, Albert," Plankinton interrupted sharply. He addressed Epps. "Five million seems reasonable."

"Three and a half," Epps replied after a few seconds' thought.

Plankinton leaned back in his seat. "Four."

"Sir!" Mercer exclaimed. "Your—"

"_Mister_ Mercer, why don't you get some air? You are looking a little peaked," Chalmers cut him off smoothly.

Epps, seeing his chance, stood up. "I'll have someone show you the grounds." He paused for a moment, considering, before raising his voice and calling, "McLain!"

Matt instantly reanimated and knocked gently on the door before walking in.

"Make sure Mr. Mercer doesn't get lost."

Matt nodded shallowly while Steele got up reluctantly. He followed "Shades" out of the office without comment.

OOOOOOO

The two men didn't speak until they were far enough away from the house not to be seen and completely alone. Matt jogged a few steps to catch up with Steele.

"What did you find out?" Steele asked first.

Matt took a deep breath. "Cameras everywhere. The roof is covered by three. Fifteen guards total, eleven with some military experience, with shift changes every hour and a half."

Steele shook his head, silently cursing his mentor for getting them into such a situation. "Any good news?"

Matt shrugged. "I checked the air ducts, nothing there. You might be able to get in through them. He keeps the Rembrandt in the vault."

"And it will be accessible through the ducts?"

Matt nodded. "But there is a camera in there too."

"Of course," Steele mumbled. He ran his hand over his lips. "Any ideas on how to get passed it?"

"Nope. That's your job, not mine." Matt stopped abruptly and cocked his head.

"What?" The private investigator had frozen as well.

Matt listened for a few more seconds before replying. "They're almost done."

Steele looked around quickly. "How do you know?"

Matt's mouth lifted a bit at the corners and he tapped his ears. "I hear them arranging the transfer. Epps just agreed to the travelers checks."

"Oh, of course," Steele recovered, having suddenly been reminded how a blind man could do the things he'd come to expect from Matt.

"Come on. They'll be wondering where I buried you if we don't get back soon."

Steele shot a sideways glance at the tall redhead. "So the knives worked?"

Matt grinned slyly. "Like a charm. Rickman and Epps are the only ones who dare to order Shades McLain about."

"Weren't you supposed to be gaining the others' respect?"

Matt raised an eyebrow and smoothed his expression. In Shades's cool voice, he said, "You don't think I already have?"

"I have no more doubts," Steele replied, bowing lightly.

When they were almost back to the mansion, Steele broke the friendly silence. "We'll find a way to contact you tonight when we've all had time to regroup. Can you reach a phone?"

Matt thought for a moment. "I'll find one."

"Good. Eight o'clock."

OOOOOO

Matt walked purposefully out of the mansion later that night. He kept his head up and forward, focusing his radar on the ground in front and his hearing around to make sure he wasn't being followed.

He skipped the first couple of pay phones he came to, just in case someone managed to get passed his senses (unlikely, but it never hurt to be cautious, as some of his clients had yet to learn).

He'd been walking for a long time when he finally ducked into a phone booth. Matt dialed the number of Remington Steele Investigations. It rang twice before Steele finally picked up.

"Murdock?"

"Harry," Matt answered as they'd arranged.

"Good. Wait a moment, let me put you on speaker." Matt heard him press something and the echoes, ever present when he talked on the phone, increased ten-fold. He zoned in best he could.

"What's the plan?"

It was Chalmers who replied. "How many cameras are in there?"

Matt leaned back against the glass. "One."  
"Can you turn it off?"

Matt shook his head. "Not without turning them all off."

"So you can't unplug it?" Mildred interrupted.

"I'm not allowed in the vault yet. Rickman doesn't trust me completely for some reason," Matt added without irony.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. "What angle is it?"

Matt sighed and rubbed his eyes with his left hand. "I'm not sure."

"Why not?" Steele asked.

"I can't see screens," Matt mumbled. As much as it hurt his ego to have to pretend to be helpless, actually being helpless hurt much more.

Matt could hear Steele run his hand over his lips and could almost sense everyone exchanging stumped glances. He was almost relieved when Laura spoke for the first time that night.

"Just make sure no one's watching the screens while we're in there."

"_We_?" Steele broke in.

"Well, yes. If you're going to endanger the agency, I have to be there to. It might be the last bit of excitement I'll get."

"How does that work?" Matt asked, forgetting about the heist for a moment.

"We'll discuss that later," Chalmers interjected. While he was all for teasing his protégé, this was not the time. There was a job to plan. "In the meantime, we need to discuss the alarm."

"Yes." Matt pushed himself off the side of the phone booth. "That. I think it might be easier to get around. From what I've been able to hear, the vault has a separate alarm from the rest of the house."

"So you can shut it off?"

Matt shrugged noncommittally. "I think so."

"Excellent." Chalmers clapped his hands together, obviously deciding to ignore the uncertainty in Matt's voice. "Now, about the timing…"


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: This is it, the big one! It is also the longest chapter. **

Chapter Nine:

It was time. The Ruben's had been deposited in the vault two hours ago and Chalmers was keeping Epps busy in his personal study. It was all going to plan. It was time for "Shades" to play his part.

Matt adjusted his Shades persona as he walked without visible trepidation into the security room. The four guards on duty jumped up instantly, looking alternatively guilty and fearful.

Shades sneered sneakily. "What's the pot?"

The guards exchanged quick looks before the more intimidating of the bunch shrugged and sat back down. "Fifty."

Shades didn't hesitate. Pulling a chair closer to the table, he said, "Deal me in."

The dealer glanced at the man to his left, somebody Winters, before dealing Shades five cards.

Shades swept them into his hand and surreptitiously felt the cards. Their glossy surface made them impossible to read, but he didn't need to really know what they were. As long as his ears and nose didn't fail him, he could never lose. Tossing two cards at random, he called for two more.

"Raise a ten," the thick man with a small heart-murmur Shades was almost positive was called Owens said. His breathing rate increased almost imperceptibly, but Shades caught it.

"Fold." Peterson tossed his cards away. Shades's radar felt him glance at the television screens lining the wall and his heart skipped a beat. The vault was practically soundproof and much too far away for him to hear what was happening down there.

Luckily Peterson didn't seem to notice anything amiss on the screen, and Shades told himself to calm down. And now that he concentrated, he could hear Steele still in the ducts.

Shades returned to the game. "Match and raise," he said, throwing a bill into the pot without really registering the amount. He was just settling back into the rhythm when he suddenly remembered the alarm. Crap.

OOOOOO

"I'm coming with you!"

Steele glanced away from the road to address his partner and not-so-secret love. "You can't, Laura."

"Why not? I'm sure I can steal a painting just as well as you."

Steele had to stop himself from slamming on the breaks to look at her. He could take all the jabs at his former lifestyle and all the suspicion that naturally followed such a profession, but to imply he was no better than an amateur, well, that was below the belt! Only the fact that they'd arrived kept him from responding.

He parked the Rabbit in the shrubbery a few yards down the road of the mansion, taking advantage of the rapidly failing darkness and the many shadows that it provided.

Laura waited until the car was hidden before opening her mouth to further argue her point, but Steele shushed her.

"Quiet!" he whispered. He crouched down as far as his long figure would allow as the distinct form of a night watchman appeared. He looked around and then, shrugging, returned to his rounds.

Steele reached back behind the seat and rummaged around for a second. "Here, you'll have to put these on." He tossed a silky dress and a pair of loose sandals at his associate.

Laura held up the dress, agape. It was a light blue that glowed faintly in the dusk light. The dress was also at least two sizes too small in the length and the dip from the neck was less than modest. The included shawl was gauzy and was in no way supposed to protect its wearer from the weather. All in all, it would have been a suitable outfit to wear to a dance, had it not been for the heels, which were higher than a standard stair-step and laced up the middle of the calf.

When Laura spoke, her voice was calm and controlled. Never a good sign. "Just what do you expect me to do with this?"

Steele gulped and pulled himself from beneath the dashboard. He'd _told _Chalmers that this was a bad idea when Murdock had mentioned the grounds' security. Maybe he should have broken the news earlier?

He glanced at Laura's expression. No, this was better. She couldn't shout with the guard just around the shrubbery—right?

He smiled sheepishly. "We need to get the guard away from the air ducts."

"With this?" Laura's control cracked and the question was shrill. She took a deep breath. "What makes you so sure I'll wear this," she shook the dress angrily, "and do _that_?"

Steele flinched. "Acapulco. The winery?" he mumbled cowardly.

Laura's face went an odd shade of puce and her voice was just barely below a full-out shout. "That was an emergency!"

"So is this!"

"No, what this is is taking advantage!" Steele tried to cut her off, but Laura was just beginning. "This is exploitation! Typical men, thinking women are nothing more than distractions! I will NOT be made inferior by you or your kind! I am an educated, successful woman who, by the way, made you the detective you are. Your nice apartment, steady paycheck, that's all ME. If I quit right now, you'd be nothing. Nothing!"

"I know that, Laura—"

"That'sMs. Holt to sexist pigs!"

"Ms. Holt, we are pressed for time."

"So you don't deny it?"

Steele was lost. He backtracked. "Of course not. You are a hardworking, respectable woman and the boss. But," he added quickly, "can we argue this _after _you save our—your—" he conceded, not willing to be interrupted again, "agency?"

Laura thought about it, still glaring at the man who'd taken her perfect gentleman's identity. After a second, she growled somewhere deep in her throat and snatched the shawl from Steele's outstretched hand, and swatted him to tell him to turn around.

Steele exited the Rabbit with a whispered thanks (to which he received another angry grunt). He wasn't sure how he felt about his—what? Girlfriend? Boss?—_colleague _seducing another man. Part of him wanted to cancel the whole plan and tell Chalmers to go to hell, while the other part—the part that craved excitement and cheated at solitaire—told him to enjoy seeing her in a tight dress.

Steele dragged his hand over his face and looked up at the stars that were just beginning to appear in the navy sky. If he hadn't been going to Hell before, he certainly was now.

His certainty only doubled when said colleague finished changing and he got his first look at her. Suddenly he hoped the air in the ducts was cold. Very cold.

"Ready?" he asked, praying she didn't notice his sudden blood flow issue.

Laura glared at him before adjusting the shawl around her shoulders. "Just go," she growled.

Steele was more than happy to oblige. He glanced at her one more time before running swiftly to the gate. He waited until Laura had the guard's attention, and then climbed over it somewhat less gracefully than he normally would have done.

It took him a moment to find the vent Matt had indicated during their walk. He had a few issues taking off the cover, but in no means because he could hear Laura and "Richard".

He glanced at his watch. Seven sixteen. He was late. He ducked into the ducts while mostly succeeding in ignoring Laura's boisterous laugh.

OOOOOOO

Crap. Shades estimated Steele was halfway to the vault, but he couldn't be sure as the echoes were making him difficult to pinpoint. At the rate he was going, Steele would arrive at the vault in minutes. And the alarm was still on.

"Call," Winters said.

Shades snapped back to the game. He spread his hand. "Full house," he said, praying his math was right. Luckily it appeared it was.

But Winters' heart had sped up and Shades heard him smile. "A royal flush."

Suddenly, Shades had an idea. He slammed his hand down on the pot, grabbing Winters' wrist. He snarled and spit the words between his teeth. "You are a cheat."

Much to Shades' surprise, Winters' skin went clammy. He hadn't expected to be right. But he had expected Winters to get angry and at that, he wasn't wrong.

Winters yanked his arm away from Shades. "Who are you calling a cheat, you sonafabitch?"

"You."

Winters stood, kicking his chair away. "Why you—!"

"Me what?" Shades stood as well and stepped around the table into his target's personal space. "I saw Piston flash you the deck and deal from the bottom."

Piston jumped to his feet, knocking the table over and sending the money and cards flying. "You lying fucker!" Owens and the other guard fled without anyone paying attention.

"How much of the pot is he giving you? Surely not half?" Shades pretended to look Winters up and down. "He doesn't seem the fifty-fifty type, does he?"

That was the last straw. Winters swung at Shades, but he just stepped to the left. Winters was almost perfectly lined up… A couple more degrees now.

Shades scoffed. "Is that the best you've got? No wonder you have to cheat."

Winters' eyes widened in anger and his heart pounded erratically. He charged. Shades waited until the very last second and then punched the charging bull's chest as hard as he could.

Winters flew backwards and crashed into the alarm control panel.

There was a tremendous burst of sparks and the acrid smell of burned hair. It was enough to make Shades gag and, just as he hoped, short-circuit the alarms.

But his elation was stopped short by a heavy fist connecting with his jaw.

OOOOO

Laura was going to kill Steele. And Chalmers. And Matt. In fact, all men, the human race be damned.

"Yeah, I've been protecting Mr. Epps for almost two years," Richard the security guard was saying.

Laura plastered her drunken, enraptured smile harder on her face. She twirled her ponytail around her fingers. "Is it," she leaned in closer as Richard's eyes had flicked to something behind her, "like, really dangerous?"

The security guard puffed out his chest importantly. "Yeah. Mr. Epps has a lot of enemies."

Laura widened her eyes. "Really?"

"You wouldn't believe," Richard tried to sound nonchalant. He failed.

Laura was going to kill Steele! She shivered dramatically, knocking the lacy shawl off her shoulders.

"I'll get it!" While he was down, Laura glanced around for a sign Steele was coming back. "Here you go!" Laura reapplied her Barbie doll smile as Richard wrapped the cover around her shoulders.

Damn thieves and their selfishness. She was going to kill Steele.

OOOOO

Steele was stuck. He'd always prized himself on his lean form, but now he wished he had a bit more muscle. He was just barely able to squeeze into the small tunnel. His arms were streamlined in front of him and he couldn't bend them very much. In order to move at all, he had to push his bottom up and down while pulling himself forward with his wrists. It was as difficult as it sounded.

Despite the difficulties and the semi-frequent close calls, he'd been making good time. He was almost to the vault when he'd gotten stuck. According to Matt's instructions, he had to turn left at the third room before going straight for two more and turn left again.

The first turn had been easy enough, but the second was much sharper. Steele had had to flip onto his side (knocking the sides hard and sending a booonnngg down the tubes) and wiggle like a fish out of water while he'd prayed like hell only Matt had heard the noise.

He was almost through when his pants' leg had caught on something, what, he wasn't sure. He hadn't expected anything to be sharp enough to catch his pants.

Steele took a deep breath and yanked his pants free. He winced at the loud ripping sound. He liked those pants. Laura had bought them the last time he'd been kidnapped and had ruined his suit. She was going to kill him.

OOOOOOO

"How long have you had the Ruben's?" Epps asked casually, pouring Lord Plankinton another glass of brandy.

They'd been talking for almost two hours. After the transaction had been finalized by moving the painting into the vault and Mercer had been "dismissed", Chalmers had stepped up the act. He'd played on the foundations he'd been laying over the last few weeks and gotten Epps talking. That was one of the reasons he'd been targeted in the first place, he was a soft target. He was a shrewd businessman but as soon as he left the office, he put his guards on standby and opened up, especially when alcohol was involved.

Had Chalmers allowed himself to think about it, he might have felt a little guilty that if Epps traced the robbery back to him, he'd probably never be the same. As it was, he'd successfully convinced himself that it would ensure the guru wouldn't be so easy to play when someone greedier came along.

That Epps had stolen the Rembrandt he'd been chasing for years just before he could had nothing to do with it.

"My great grandfather, Lord Elrod Plankinton II, bought it at an auction almost two hundred years ago," Plankinton lied smoothly. He'd only had the painting for a few years, as long as the real Lord Plankinton had been missing it.

Chalmers rarely sold his scores now. He hadn't needed the money since that time in Prague back in the early seventies—the "good ole days". He had plenty to live on and pay his associates. He just liked the rush of assuming an identity.

No, he preferred to keep the hotter objects in storage until he could find a use for them, or, depending on whether he felt his nest egg was getting a little shabby, until they cooled enough. In the Ruben's' case, it was the former.

"My grandfather was a Russian Jew," Epps replied. After a few glasses of the brandy, he was starting to mumble. Apparently he thought he could hold more drink than his liver knew it could.

Plankinton was saved the trouble of coming up with an appropriate response by the lights suddenly flickering. Epps froze for a second before dialing a number on the phone on the table at his elbow.

"Find out what that was and fix it." Epps didn't sound drunk anymore. He'd slipped back into business mode.

Plankinton groaned mentally. He would have trouble getting Epps out of alert now. It would be difficult to keep him away from his customary nighttime stroll around his property. If it was one of the men on his team, he was going to kill him.

OOOOOOO

Matt had to admit he hadn't "seen" Piston's fist, but he had felt it. Lights that reminded him of stars from back before the accident flashed momentarily in front of his eyes from the force of the blow. His jaw would be colorful for weeks.

Shades swung around to face Piston, who'd held back after landing the punch. He noticed for the first time that the other players were gone as he marshaled himself. Piston's fists were raised and his stance spoke of experience.

Matt slipped back into Shades, as his persona had faltered for the second following the blow. "I have no quarrel with you, you know," Shades said.

"You called me a patsy. I'd say we got a problem."

Had Matt not been Shades at the moment, he would have bobbed his head a little side-to-side and tried to talk it out, but as it was, he shrugged and reached for one of the knives.

Shades felt Piston tense. He took out the knife. Before the other man could react, Shades threw it.

As expected, the knife hit its target: the thin stretch of muscle between his left radius and ulna. It was rarely a fatal wound, but the shock and pain would insure Piston wouldn't attack.

Shades didn't really care about fighting (though Matt might be a little more reserved), but didn't want to risk his glasses falling off, or worse, being smashed. The punch was close enough. If Epps or company knew Shades was blind, there was a greater risk of them tracing him back to his day job. That could be ugly.

"What the fuck is going on?" Rickman had arrived. "Which one of you motherfuckers knocked the bastard into the system?" His tone was not calm, but Shades remained aloof.

Rickman's gaze landed on the upturned table and then the knife sticking out of Piston's arm. Piston was grimacing in pain. Shades felt a stab of pity for the guy; Matt might never have had personal experience with the wound, but his former partner, the Black Widow, had. And she hadn't had the cleanest mouth when he patched her up.

"You know what, I don't give a damn who did it," Rickman said. "Suck it up, Piston, it's a fuckin' flesh wound." They didn't bother to correct him as he went back to addressing both of them. "You're both fired. And when that idiot wakes up, tell him he's fired too. If you're not outta this house in the next ten minutes, I'll be taking this outta your fuckin' bank accounts."

Rickman glared at his former employees one more time, making it perfectly clear he was completely serious, and exited the room. Shades heard him yell at the two guys who'd fled to "go in there and clean up the fuckin' mess."

Shades relaxed a bit. Rickman hadn't seen that the vault alarms, in fact all alarms, were off or Steele in the vault. Then he remembered he'd just been fired. Steele better be done, else he was going to kill his lookout.

OOOOO

Steele was almost to the vault when he saw the light pouring in from the vents flicker on and off for a few seconds. He paused for a moment before pushing onward, groaning at the tremendous effort it took to start again. He would be sore for weeks.

Steele knew when he hit the vault a minute later. The air was much cooler and a mesh wire plus the normal cover covered the vent. Steele sat up as much as possible and got to work unscrewing the slited metal layer.

Five minutes later the vent was uncovered. Steele grinned proudly as he popped the mesh out, only sparing a second to pray that Matt had done his job and turned off the alarm. Apparently his hesitancy was unfounded as nothing happened as he gently lowered the mesh to the ground.

Steele slid out of the duct carefully, pressing himself as close to the wall as possible. When "Plankinton" and Epps (with Mercer trailing behind, ever the ignored lawyer) had dropped off the Ruben's, Steele had been scouting the vault. As Matt had said, there was indeed a camera, but it wasn't very well placed. For such a harsh employer, Rickman was careless.

The camera was attached to the wall a few feet from the ceiling above the vent. A foot to any side was completely invisible to the electric eye. It was focused on the table in the middle of the room that was currently supporting the newest addition to Epps' impressive art collection, but Steele's goal was behind the Ruben's hanging on the vault's wall, directly opposite the camera. Earlier today, three spotlights had artfully lit it, but now it was dark.

Steele pulled off the backpack he always took on a heist (this time significantly lighter and emptier than it usually was), and unzipped the main pocket. He pushed the emergency coil of rope aside and grabbed the expensive Polaroid camera.

He placed the camera as close to the video recorder as possible while still remaining in the blind spot and took a picture. Placing the instant photograph on the floor to develop, Steele rummaged around for the stand he'd put in the pack.

When the photo was sufficiently developed, he clamped it onto the stand and, using the industrial-grade superglue a contact had supplied him, he glued the stand right next to the camera with the picture directly in front of the lens. He held his breath and prayed to whatever was up there the angle was right.

He pressed the stand against the wall for thirty long seconds before slowly removing his hands.

He released his breath in relief and surveyed his work. It had been Mildred's idea to use a picture and she'd gotten the idea from the story those old fighter-pilots had told her about the robbery they'd pulled while Steele and Laura were tailing their client's father's car a few months back. They'd done the same thing apparently. Not for the first time—and definitely not the last—Steele was extremely grateful Mildred worked for them now and not the IRS.

The old pilots had had a better camera and equipment, but the Polaroid and retired note stand would have to do. It wouldn't hold up on close inspection, but it did the trick at a glance.

With the camera rendered ineffective, Steele quickly crossed the room to the Rembrandt. He wasted a few moments admiring the painting properly.

It was more of a sketch than an actual painting, but the eyes and expression were painstakingly detailed. It was another of his countless self-portraits, but in this one, Rembrandt's expression was serene. It was obvious why Chalmers and Epps and everyone else who'd stolen the painting since its creation wanted it. It really was beautiful.

Steele tore himself away from its splendor and gently lifted the painting from its place of glory. He set the sketch on the stainless steel table next to the Ruben's and, grinning at the image of Epps' angry face, took something out of his jacket pocket and placed it next to the two artworks.

He was on his way back to the vent with his prize before he realized the one detail no one had thought of. They'd been so focused on getting in, no one had thought to think about getting _out_. The self-portrait wasn't overly large, but it was hardly the size of the _Mona Lisa. _In fact, it was almost exactly the same size as the vent in any direction. Even putting it diagonally wouldn't work.

Steele had a hunch he might have just figured out why neither Epps nor Rickman had been overly concerned by the rather large blind spot.

The not-so-reformed thief looked at the painting and then to the vent and back again.

He had two choices, well three, really, but leaving the painting wasn't really an option. He could roll the self-portrait up, or take it out of its frame and push it ahead of him in the ducts with his nose. Both options screamed barbaric, but to roll up a painting, a Rembrandt, nonetheless, from the seventeenth century was simple heresy. He was a white-collar con artist, not some two-bit knucklehead.

A long four minutes later, the Rembrandt was free from its frame and Steele was once again crammed into the extremely long rectangular pipe.

OOOOOO

Matt wasn't sure where everything stood. He couldn't hear Steele in the ducts anymore, so he could only assume he'd found his way into the vault. He heard Chalmers, no Plankinton, in Epps' study still, though their conversation was much less warm now, and after a few moments, turned his attention to finding Laura, who he knew had tagged along if she could have—which meant she did.

He could only hear faint snippets from her conversation outside, but what he did hear amused him greatly. Steele would get an earful, if his gut were telling him right. Laura distracting a guard—Richard Cork, the loneliest of all the night guards? Oh yes, Laura must be pissed.

Pissed. Rickman had been pissed. Oh right, he was fired. That wasn't good.

Winters groaned. At least he was alive. The electric currents he'd disrupted with his body probably didn't help him, but they hadn't killed him, probably thanks to the standard-issue rubber-soled shoes, Matt thought. He'd have a hell of a headache for a while and his heart would probably never really be the same again, though.

Matt mentally shrugged. He'd done his job; it was time for Shades to disappear. If Steele hadn't gotten it out yet, well, there was nothing he could do.

Shades yanked his knife from Piston's arm, expressly ignoring the strangled cursing from the former-guard, wiped the blade on his suit, and walked out. It was time to go.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten:

Mildred didn't have anything to do. There was no filing to be done, no more tax returns to pore over, and no old cases to type up, no false paper trails to create. Nothing to do but think about her boss and his mentor and her other boss and their client. Not for the first time, Mildred wished she were twenty years younger and able to follow her employer during times like these.

Every five minutes or so she'd drag her eyes from the clock and pick up her purse, intending to go after them, but just as suddenly, she'd put it down again. She'd just picked it up for the thousandth time when the first of the merry robbers arrived.

"Matt!" Mildred shot of her seat and practically tackled the lawyer. "How's the boss? Ms. Holt?"

Matt collapsed onto one of the couches and closed his eyes. He'd spent three hours walking in a disrupted line away from the mansion before hailing a cab to the agency. "I passed Laura as I was leaving. She's fine but not happy. I don't know about the others. I lost track of Steele around the vault, but Chalmers was still going."

Mildred breathed deeply. Those watchdog instincts were acting up again. She was just about to begin another onslaught when Steele and Laura walked through the door.

"…I do not see how dressing like a prostitute was the only thing I could have done to keep him occupied, Mr. Steele!" Laura was saying for the third time that night. The hours between driving to the agency seemed to have done little for her mood.

Mildred jumped in before Steele could aggravate Laura's current mood even more. "Well, Boss, did you get it?"

Steele grinned his toothy smile. He lifted the plain brown package Mildred had failed to notice when they'd first walked in.

"Is that it?"

"It had better be!" Laura said shrilly, making Matt wince.

"Yes it is," Steele replied, laying the Rembrandt gently on the coffee table in front of Matt's couch.

"Well done, my boy! Any unforeseen problems?" Chalmers had slipped in without anyone but Matt noticing.

Steele moved aside to let Mildred open the painting like a teenager at Christmas—she was trying and failing to keep in her excitement—to address his mentor. "A few. We forgot about getting out."

"You didn't do anything to damage—"

"It's beautiful," Mildred interrupted, her voice soft in awe of the mastery in front of her.

"—our reputation," Laura continued where Chalmers had left off.

"Of course not!" Steele sounded scandalized.

"So there's no way they can trace us back to the robbery?" Matt cut in.

Chalmers fielded that one. "There never was."

"I don't know," Mildred said, unhelpfully.

"Mildred!"

"But Chief, I know you said he won't call the police because it was already stolen, but isn't he big enough to track us down by himself? I mean, the covers Mr. Chalmers' contacts and I made are good, but a rich scumbag like him has to have someone just as good at that kind of stuff."

Matt's stomach dropped like a shot duck as the meaning behind Mildred's words sank in. He hadn't even considered the possibility of Epps tracking them down through darker channels and wreaking havoc on his life. He turned slowly to face Steele, preparing to pummel the life out of him unless he came up with a good response to her inquiry in the next five seconds.

Steele cleared his throat and rubbed his hand over his ribs, wondering when he'd become the man in front of the mob. "Well," he began. "That's what the disguises were for."

"And if he tracks us anyway?" Matt countered.

"Then you're in trouble," Steele agreed, and everyone, save Chalmers, stared at him, dumbstruck, before talking at once.

"But," Steele continued over the tumult. "I doubt he'll be able to make the connection to you, Mr. Murdock." Matt had to nod at that. After all, his blindness was the perfect alibi.

"And you?" Laura had gone ashen at the thought of the man who stood in the spotlight for Remington Steele Investigations being arrested for thievery. She'd never get another client!

"He won't chase us," Chalmers broke in for the first time. Everyone looked at (or turned to, in Matt's case) him. "The Rembrandt does not exist—in the art world of course. To the, shall we say, law-abiding citizens of the world, this particular self-portrait was destroyed in a fire in 1751. From then on, it has been passed from thief to thief. It holds no monetary value, only the reward of knowing that you have it until the next takes it from you. It is meant to be stolen, and therefore not retrieved once lost."

The room was silent until Matt spoke again. "What about the money you took for the Ruben's?"

"Why, I'm sure Mr. Epps will understand, right, Harry?"

OOOOO

Colin Epps' furious gaze landed on the thin envelope next to the painting he'd bought from that damn Duke or Lord or whatever he was called; the pain blasting into his skull with every beat of his heart was muddling his thoughts—damn brandy.

His hands shook almost imperceptibly as his fingers opened the envelope his useless head of security had given him. He stared at the contents for a long moment, his scowl frozen.

"We will catch them, sir. They—"

"No," Epps broke in.

Rickman knew his job was already on the rocks, but he had to get his employer to see reason. The men that had had the audacity to steal not just from Epps but from _him_, had to be taken down. It was that Duke, it had to be. There had been something wrong with him; he hadn't trusted him and his sniveling lawyer. And the two men he'd sent to ruffle the man's feathers had said some strange things… "But sir, the Rembrandt—"

"I said no!" Epps shoved the contents of the envelope at the stubborn Rickman. "None of this every happened, do you hear me? _None_ of it!"

Rickman watched his employer of ten years, the man he'd respected for longer than that, exit the vault. He looked down at the paper Epps had given him. It was neatly typewritten note: "_It's our turn now. Enjoy the Ruben's._"


	11. Epilogue

Epilogue:

"Mr. Murdock."

Matt groaned and pushed his forehead further into the space between the arm and back of Steele's couch. After last night, and indeed, the last couple of months', emotional and physical toil, he just wanted another hundred or so years of sleep. But it was too late; Steele's extraordinary accent and timid touch had already begun the cacophony of sensory information that plagued Matt's every waking moment. He sat up, felt for his old, blue-shaded glasses, and a second later, found them and slipped them on.

Only then did he address the lanky detective and his host for the night. "Something wrong?"

While the last vestiges of sleep and night-phlegm muffled Matt's voice, Steele's was crisp, if a little hesitant at having to wake his guest.

"I thought you would want to see this."

"And it couldn't have waited?" Matt shuffled to the kitchen, notably brightening when his nose caught the scent of freshly brewed coffee.

"Third cupboard over, top shelf. No, thank you, I've got already got my cup," Steele answered Matt's silent question. He waited until Matt had taken a sip of the caffeine elixir before continuing what he'd started in the living room. "When I fetched the paper, I found this letter. It's addressed to you." Steele stopped, unsure of where he was supposed to go from there.

Matt gestured for him to pass the letter over, and Steele gratefully did so. He watched in bridled fascination as Matt's nimble fingers scanned the elegant cursive pressed with Chalmers' favorite fountain pen into the thick stationary. As Matt's fingers trailed down the page, his eyebrows rose and then pulled together, his head sunk slightly down, his jaw flexed, and his mouth pursed and then slowly relaxed.

When Matt's fingers reached the loopy signature, he laid them flat against the page, his expression unreadable. After a few silent moments during which Steele tried and failed to glean what the lawyer was thinking, he broke. "Well?"

Matt startled slightly and then pushed the letter away, toward the private eye, cupping his now idle hands under and around his chin.

Steele paused for a beat before picking it up and starting to read.

_September 22, 1980_

_Mr. Murdock,_

_What I am about to pen pains me more than you know. What you have done for me these last few weeks has been beyond courageous, and I do not just mean your involvement in my most recent adventure. You are willing to do whatever you feel you must, no matter the consequences, and that, Mr. Murdock, is not something I take lightly. I only wish that determination had not been focused on an old trickster like me. If you had known what I do then, perhaps you would not have spent the last two months chasing me through the bowels of the criminal underworld. _

_As Patrick Murray, I worked as a negotiator for certain parties, some of whom you know, some of whom I pray you never meet. You were correct in suspecting what stories I could tell, what I knew before and learned then. But as you have no doubt already guessed, that knowledge will remain with me and me alone._

_Please allow me to explain. It is not fear or loyalty that holds my tongue. The things I saw as Patrick Murray were not about the craft; the things I covered were without need, the methods crude and actions often excessively brutal. I hold nothing but shame and disgust for those parties for whom Patrick Murray worked. And yet, I cannot and therefore, will not, speak._

_I have lived many years, Mr. Murdock, done more in one lifetime and had more lives than any man has the right to. Once, in another life, a man I called a friend held his tongue, and today, I must return the debt, no matter that in this life, that man is no friend of mine. I asked him to keep my secret and now his secret I will keep. _

_I am sorry, Mr. Murdock. Had things been different, I would like to think we would have been friends._

_Forgive me._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Daniel L. Chalmers_

Steele looked up. Matt hadn't moved. "What are you going to do?"

Matt lifted his head, his trance shattered. He stood, finished his now lukewarm coffee, and finally answered. "I'm going to get dressed and then I'm going home."

Steele trailed Matt back into the living room. "And the Kingpen? What of him?"

Matt paused in his search for his socks. The corners of his lips twitched into a wry, serious smile. "All I ever needed were the rumors to be true. Now I know I have a chance."

**A/N: I would like to thank everyone who reviewed, especially JJ Rust, who made sure I posted and fluffed my feathers. I hope you all enjoyed "Dewey, Cheetum, and Steele". Once again, if I missed any edits, I am sorry. I wanted to just get this out to you. **


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